The BeatlesA Hard Days Night
by nicuvino
Summary: This is a Beatles fanfic-not ATU. Just clearing that up. What happens when the Beatles get pulled into the future without any warning what so ever? This fanfic!  First one btw
1. I'll Be on My Way

**Ringo **

"Shhh," someone whispered.

"I think he's waking."

"You better 'ope he's waking," an older bird's voice said sternly.

"What's going on?" Ringo mumbled. Sadly, to the girls, it came out sounding like a washed up piece of gibberish.

One of them screamed, surprising the drummer's newly woken ears. He felt himself flinch but wasn't exactly sure which body part did it.

"Hold it down, you," that bird's voice demanded again.

"What's 'app'ning?" he tried again.

"Shhh," she said. "You thirsty?"

His eyes banana-peeled open and he noticed that he was on the street, surrounded by two young girls and their mother. He was lying down on the concrete floor with his stomach churning slowly and painfully.

"Excuse me, but would you like some water?" the seemingly sane mother asked. "You look awful pale."

Giving up on trying to use his big-boy words, Ringo just nodded and propped himself up on his elbows. She passed him a bottle of water, which he thirstily downed in a matter of about fifteen seconds.

"How do you feel, mister?" she asked.

Ringo took a moment to take in whom he was talking to. She was a lady in her mid-thirties wearing a thick brown overcoat that seemed to be trembling under the weight of the huge black bag on her shoulder—it almost resembled a fashionable leather sack. To add to that insanity, she was also in some relatively tight jeans that matched the other two girl's jeans.

"I swear 'e looks just like 'im. With that nose an' all," the younger of the two girls squealed. She couldn't have been a day over eleven years old—what with her awkward half-chubby half-maturing face.

The older of the two—maybe fourteen or fifteen—rolled her eyes and said, "You're being silly. 'E's gotta be at least a billion an' two by now."

The younger one pouted.

"Are you okay?" the lady demanded.

"Wha? Oh, I guess," Ringo said distractedly. "What 'appened?"

"I figure you jus' fainted."

"Oh?"

He pulled himself to his feet woozily—he must have been drunk and wandered out here (where ever 'here' was).

"'E sounds jus' like 'im too though," the younger of the two persisted.

"Like who?" Ringo wondered.

The younger girl froze looking up to him like some sort of alien with a baboon's ass plastered to its face.

"Me sister thinks you're Ringo Starr," she older girl said. "She's a loon though. Always has been so it's not much surprise."

"No she's not," Ringo said. "I'm Ringo."

The older sister rolled her eyes and said, "Don't encourage 'er."

The mother rounded up her kids protectively, throwing Ringo the evil eye as she pried her two youngsters away from him. He could have sworn he heard her mutter something about him being a "rat-arsed bloke " and then warning the two girls to never go out with "his sort".

"Where the bloody 'ell am I?" Ringo murmured softly, scratching the back of his shaggy haired head.


	2. If You've Got Trouble

**George**

He woke up to a head-spitting ache in his thin cranium.

"'Ey, there's one!" someone yelled. "Already done over by the looks o' 'im though."

"Shut yer bloody trap," someone else whispered fiercely. "Yer gonna get the bobby on us."

George sat himself up, put a boney hand to his forehead, and tried to see who was talking.

Two huge forms advanced on him and pushed him back down.

"Don't move," one of them warned in a growled, pressing a knife to his neck. He immediately froze like a trained dog on command to sit.

The other rummaged through his pockets and snatched out his wallet, a pack of cigarettes, and his wristwatch.

"C'mon, he doesn't got anythin' else on him," he said before getting up and spitting at the youngest Beatle. "Rubbish."

The pair sprinted off, leaving George both worried and confused. He was pretty sure he'd just been mugged though.

He picked himself up, trying not to think about it too deeply for fear of making his head hurt worse. His feet automatically brought him towards the street and out of the alley. He stuck out a hand, trying to wave down a taxicab. Three slowed down but continued driving past him—_Wankers_, he had thought. Finally, one stopped for him.

"Excuse me?" a lady in about her mid-thirties with two girls trailing behind her asked. "Could we 'ave this one? Me girls will be late to school."

"Sure, no problem, ma'am," he said, trying to ignore the younger girl's bug eyed stare on him.

"Thank you," she said, bustling her two kids into the cab.

"Hey, you wouldn't 'appen to 'ave the time on you?" George asked, starting to miss his watch.

"Sure," she said pulling out a shiny rectangle thingy and pressing a button that made it light up. "It's 7:14 a.m."

George raised an eyebrow at the unrecognizable gadget and hesitantly said, "Thank you, ma'am."

"No problem."

She got into the cab and left, without another word.

It took about five more minutes for him to wrangle in another cab.

"Can you get me to _Abbey Road Records_?" he asked the driver.

"Have you enough readies?"

George reached into his pocket only to be reminded that he'd just been mugged.

"Oi, I was just mugged," George started to explain.

"Out."

"But, my manager will pay you," George tried again.

"Out."

"But I'm George-bloody-Harrison!"

"I'm sure you are," the driver sneered sarcastically. "Now get out, nutter, before I call the bobby."

"Piss off," George muttered as he reluctantly left the cab.


	3. Help!

**John**

"Oi! It must be raining greasers 'ere," some one snickered. "All ours for the taken' too. Quite a jammy day, if I do say so meself. "

"'E look familiar to you?" another dodgy voice asked as he kneeled besides the seemingly unconscious John.

"Now that you mention it, 'e des look a bit like that other bloke," the first one said. "Jus' the 'air though."

The earner kneeling by him started to search his pockets, which John mistook for the man trying to cop a feel.

"What the bloody 'ell do yer think you're doing!" John demanded, instantly waking up.

The man took out a switchblade and pointed it at John.

"Nothin' wrong with a little five-finger discount now is there?"

John looked at it. "Get that little pig stick out of me face," he said jumping ferociously to his feet.

The man's accomplice pushed the slightly dizzy boy back down and attempted to give him a kick in the gut, which John managed to barely evade. The first man managed to kick him in the back hard enough to keep him down. John feigned defeat while really waiting for one of them to try to make another move—which didn't take to long. A hand was nearing in on his jacket's pocket when John twisted over and punched the crook in the face. He had bought enough time to pull himself up again and turn on the second git.

The Beatle threw himself at the jerk and started to swing his arms madly. He held his own for a decent amount of time but the two men simply were much out of his weight class.

He was back on the floor soon enough, being kicked and stomped like a piece of unloved ABC gum on the sidewalk. He unwittingly let out a couple of howls from the pain of it all.

"Feisty little bugger, this one!" one of them howled along side a laugh.

When the two felt they had put the lad through enough, they proceeded in searching for his wallet again.

"'Ey! Get off 'im!" a familiar voice yelled.

One of the two stopped to see who it was and let out an ear-shattering laugh. "Lookey at who's back, Jay!"

The one called Jay looked over his shoulder and saw the scrawny lad from earlier standing there. "Back again eh?"

"Get outta 'ere, bones!" the first man hollered.

George hesitated but continued on his way to the trio.

"What do yer think yer doing, bones?" Jay yelled trying to intimidate him more.

"Jus' let 'im go," George yelled back, still continuing to advance.

"I'll deal with the twit," Jay muttered to his head case friend as he got up.

It didn't take too long to overthrow George in the short ruck—it was quite pathetic actually. Both men ran off with their wallets and other possessions laughing, leaving John and George to bite the dust for all they cared.

"Way to take it like a man," John commented, as he dragged his freshly black and blue arse over to George. "But next time you try to save me, at least try to go down looking more gear. 'Cause it started out all right—"

"Jus' shut yer gob before I do," George said. "And you can bet yer big toe I'll do it 'looking more gear'."

John laughed and pulled himself and his friend up. The pair wandered back towards the street and talked.

"John, you've an idea of where we are right? 'Cause I've abso-bloodly-lootely none," George said, drawing his head to his burning forehead again.

"Well we've got to be in Britain, right?" John said rubbing several increasingly sore spots on his back.

"Well that's what I thought but then," George said and proceeded to tell John about all that had happened with the lady with her glowing box and the taxi driver not believing who he had been talking to.

John seemed iffy at first and announced it by asking, "Are you sure you're not jus' juiced up? 'Cause you could've 'ad a jar too many last night."

"Keep running that lip and see what 'appens, Lennon," George said becoming frustrated with both John and the flaming brain inside his skull.

"You okay, mate?" John asked, taking notice of how George was constantly rubbing at his head.

"Bad 'ead ache," George mumbled.

John's hands hadn't stopped rubbing at his back ever since he noticed how it hurt there. It was weird though because he was pretty sure he hadn't been kicked there too hard. He decided just to blow it off, blaming it on the beating.


	4. I'm Only Sleeping

** Paul**

Paul gently woke up from an extremely peaceful kip. He tugged the thick, warm blankets around his already comfortable body. Distantly, his ears picked up on a 'click' but his barely conscious mind dismissed it.

Paul savored the last moment of bliss before hearing, "JENIFER ALICE BROWN! WHO IS IN YER BED?"

Another distant, seemingly irrelevant noise of a shower turning off came from a near by room.

Paul's eyes slowly flickered on at the sound of the new, lairy female voice.

A door squealed open, revealing a cute bird with sudsy hair in nothing but a bath towel.

She glared at Paul. "I've no idea."

"YOU'VE BECOME A TOERAG, YOU 'AVE!" Jenifer's mother yelled.

"Mother! I haven't slept with him!" Jenifer yelled.

"THEN WHY'S THIS 'ERE BLOKE IN YER BED!"

Paul looked at himself self-consciously. "Ma'am, I've no idea where I am."

"OH BUT I'LL TELL YOU WHERE YOU'RE GOING!" she screamed. "STRAIGHT TO HELL, EVEN I'VE GOTTA PUT YOU THERE MESELF!

Paul's eye's widened and he tensed slightly—if she could scream this loud, who knows what else she'd be capable of.

"I don't even know the ponce!" Jenifer yelled. "And even if I did, you've no right to yell at me for shagging 'im. I'm eighteen and it'd be totally legal!"

"Please don't bring me into this," Paul mumbled, his eyes dodging between the girl, the mom, and the door.

"Honey, what's all the racket," Jenifer's dad started to ask, but then saw Paul.

"I'll kill 'im meself," he said, advancing on Paul.

Paul scrambled out of the bed and started to back up towards the wall, choking out things like "let's not be 'asty" and "I swear on me life we didn't do anything! I don't even know 'er!"

The moment he was cornered, the father threw his first punch. Paul took it but moment it disconnected from his jaw—which might've been dislocated for all he knew—he dipped under his arm and made a run for the door. The mother managed to trip him before he made it out but he scrambled to his feet before any of them could grab hold of him.

He raced to the nearest staircase, closely followed by that Jenifer-bird's father. Paul took the stairs down two at a time, thankful that all his training in running away from mental fan girls was putting itself to good use. He made it to the lobby before the father caught up with him and grabbed him by his mop top hair.

"Stop it, ya bloody geezer!" Paul yelled. "I don't even know the skirt!"

He was hit in the gut twice before a manager closed in on them. He pulled the bird's dad off Paul before selling Paul to the street.

Paul stumbled out, feeling mullered and confused.

_Did I shag the bird?_ Paul wondered raising a hand to his head and rubbing it as if it would bring back all his memories. _Maybe I was mullered and I just don't remember. _

Come to think of it, he couldn't remember ever being on the street he was now standing on. He must have been ramped. But then where was the hangover. He had never _not_ had a hangover after getting over-the-top drunk.

He started to blindly walk down the street and noticed a mixture of odd glances and glares. That's when he realized it was because he was still wearing his pajamas. He must have looked really silly seeing as there were blue and white strips running up and down his body. He was thankful that he hadn't been wearing a nightcap because that would have _really_ topped off the outfit.

He gave those people his own fair share of weird looks himself though. Several were wearing really skinny, uncomfortable looking jeans in a vast variety of colors. Most of the birds—young, old, and that in-the-middle age—were wearing extremely tight clothes under extremely tight jackets—not that he was complaining though. The men, on the other hand, had a style of wearing their loose jeans below as if they were trying to show off their arses. Some even walked in a funny gait, which Paul assumed, was to help keep the trousers from dropping to the floor.

_ Where the hell am I?_

"Paul?" someone yelled. "'Ey Paul!"

Paul looked for the voice's owner and found him standing by the sidewalk across the street. He ran towards Ringo—the first semi-normal person he'd seen that day—and made sure not to get hit by any passing by cars—that, now that Paul noticed, looked very…odd.

"Rings, what's going on?"

"'Cause I've definitely a clue," the little drummer said sarcastically. "I was about to ask the same."

"You've no idea where we are?"

Ringo hesitated. "With any luck, Britain."

"Well, we can check out a newspaper somewhere, I guess."

Ringo agreed before they started to share stories of how they had woken up while they entered the nearest corner shop.

The door jingled as the entered. The intoxicating smell of fish and chips overwhelmed both boys. A pair of hands whirled both the boys around before they had the chance to rush to the counter.

Paul and Ringo were hit with a full face of black and blue John and George. The pair looked as if they'd been used for batting practice and then given to a set of Rottweiler's as chew toys.

"John?" Paul asked, partially surprised and partially appalled.

"Well, at least 'e doesn't 'ave 'imself brain damage," George muttered, surprisingly angrily.

"What's the matter with 'im?" Paul asked in a tone that might have been easily comparable to a worried mother if they weren't all friends.

"'Ead ache."

"Bad?"

"VERY!" George broke out.

"'Ey, keep your voice down, son—"Ringo started.

"Don't 'son' me."

Ringo smirked and the group sat down at the nearest table. Paul and Ringo listened while John and George spoke about their morning. When they finished, Paul and Ringo told their own not-so-fairy-tales

"So no one has any real idea of where we are," John said, massaging his shoulder.

Paul noticed and gave John a funny look. "No."

"Well then," John said, and twisted his torso around slowly so he could snatch a newspaper off the nearest shelf.

"Well?" George asked agitated at the empty waiting.

"Is this a joke!" John nearly shouted.

"Aye, the economy's really plummeting now innit?" someone near by commented.

Dismissing the comment, John showed the paper to his friends and pointed to the date. "Look at that!"

"Two thousand and what!" Paul said.

"Ten!" John responded.

"Stop shouting," George complained.

"Two thousand and ten," Paul whispered.

"That's impossible," George pouted.

"Well it looks rather literal," Ringo said.

The quartet didn't say anything for several moments, waiting for someone to pop out and tell them it was all a joke—it had to be, right? When no one did, they started to mull everything over in their silent heads.

"What now?" Ringo asked.

There was a brief hesitation before John picked himself up and went to the counter. The woman working there looked rather old and had a granny apron on.

"Hullo, ma'am," he said.

She looked up and was at first overwhelmed by all the bruises on the lad. Then she regained her composure only to loose it again when she saw he was John Lennon.

And she fainted.

John leaned over the counter and looked down at her. "Oi! Ma'am, are you okay?"

He hopped over the counter and tried to gently slap her awake.

"'Ey! What's that there lad doin'!" someone yelled.

"She just fainted!" John tried to explain.

"He's robbing Miss. Yeats!"

"No, I'm not!"

"Let's get 'im!"

"Let's not!" John begged.

"C'mon!" the biggest of the men yelled, waving an encouraging hand to signal some of the others to join.

He found himself being dragged out by several tall, bulky men, much to the rest of the Beatle's amusement—even George, who had been getting increasingly and uncharacteristically frustrated by the second.

"Let's get out of here," George mumbled as he got up and started on his way after John.

"I'll catch up with you," Paul said. George continued on his way ignoring him but Ringo waited and raised a questioning eyebrow at the bassist. "Jus' wait outside."

Obliging, Ringo followed George out and Paul stole several wrapped up packages of fish and chips with a few bottles of water. He tucked them under his nightclothes and held them like a sad impression of Santa before any of the men who taken John had returned to notice.

"Sorry, ma'am," he whispered to the unconscious lady the other side of the room as he finally ducked out of the store.


	5. Money Can't Buy Me Love it can buy shirt

A/N: Forgot to mention this in my last chapters, I DON'T OWN THE BEATLES! (wish I did.)

**Ringo**

He munched down on the food Paul had stole and gulped down his water. There was nothing more absolute in life than eating stolen food on the sidewalk with your mates.

"You feelin' any better yet, George?" Ringo asked between bites. "'Cause I am."

George had been eating quietly and extremely slowly. His throat had been slightly bothering him and swallowing was becoming a little painful.

"Pick up the pace, son, before a couple of seagulls come down and steal it from you," John said with a laugh. "Or worse, me."

Ringo had noticed how John was constantly twitching and flinching whenever he did something that even remotely involved his back. It was actually starting to worry him.

"Your back alright?" Paul asked, beating Ringo to the punch.

"Huh? Oh, jus' a bit sore," John mumbled trying to make it seem unimportant. "Nothin' big."

"You sure?" Ringo asked.

John paused as if he were trying to decide between several lies with punch lines. He picked one and laughed, "Oi! Who are you two? Me mums?"

Ringo and Paul exchanged a glance. They decided to drop it. John would come around when he wanted.

"Paul, you really need something to change into," Ringo said. "We're conspicuous enough without yer 'elp."

"I'll 'ave none of those skinny pants or drooping jeans," Paul declared.

George rolled his eyes and picked at his chips.

"Well, c'mon then," John said, delicately dragging himself up. "I'm sure we can get something. Jus' a shame I don't got me wallet anymore."

"Shame I don't either," Paul said.

"Don't look at me," George mumbled.

Ringo rolled his big blue eyes. "Like any of you would've paid anyways. You're cheap, you are."

The three Beatles smiled—well Paul did anyway, seeing as George and John were stuck in similar pained grimaces.

"Are you _sure _the pair of you are okay?" Ringo demanded.

"'Course I am," John said, feigning offence at the notion.

"Jus' a head ache," George mumbled.

"You two are bloody proud and if you don't jus' say what's wrong you'll have bloody noses too!" Paul said.

"You're actin' like a pair of ol' men," Ringo added.

"You two really are looking to be me mums!" John announced.

"John, we're jus' tryin' to look out for you," Paul explained.

"No, you're bloody annoying me! Jus' stop yellin' and all that!"

"Nobody's yellin', John," Paul said.

"That's jus' you," Ringo said.

John pouted, knowing it was true and trying to force himself to let it go. He might've actually started a fight if he wasn't just so damned sore.

"C'mon George," Ringo said, leaving Paul to deal with John. He stuck out a hand, which George took to pull himself up, careful not to drop his barely eaten food.

"Really bad head ache, huh?"

"Very really bad."

"We'll get you somethin' for that after we're done with McCartney, okay, son," Ringo encouraged. "Maybe jus' some ice or somethin'. 'Ow's that sound, George?"

"Loud," George muttered below Ringo's hearing range.

"Well c'mon then," John said, taking lead and walking in a blind direction.

"You 'aven't an idea where yer goin'," Paul commented.

"Neither 'ave you," John said continuing in his personal parade which he knew the rest would eventually follow.

Paul shared a look with Ringo that said 'we're the only sane ones here, aren't we?'

They still followed after John deciding that his guess was as good as any at this point. They passed several expensive-looking stores that had a shine to them and thick perfumes wafting out of them—the smells needed to be way more toned down though, seeing as they were thicker than wool.

"Why's everything so feminine?" John complained.

"Maybe they knew you were coming, John," Paul quipped.

John half-heartedly punched Paul's shoulder—not nearly as hard as Paul had come to expect.

"Not much pluck eh?" Paul commented, trying to force some truth from John.

"Be glad, McCartney," John sang, "or else you'll just be sad."

Paul rolled his eyes as they neared the next corner and turned down it to be greeted with a several ratty looking stands holding various clothing items sloppily stacked on them.

Ringo stopped the rest of the trio and pushed them back around the corner.

"What?" they all complained.

"I'll go alone. We'll look desperate if we all go down there together and end up gettin' ourselves ripped off," Ringo explained.

"Why'd we look desperate?" John asked.

Ringo rolled his eyes. "'Ave you seen yerself, mate? It looks like I'm dragging around two bloody corpses and a messed up hobo."

They all let out a laugh before Ringo got Paul's clothing size out of him in between choked laughs.

"God, it wasn't that funny," Ringo mumbled as he turned the corner again.

"Fancy suit," the vendor commented. "Wanna trade?"

"Don't be cheeky," Ringo warned. He ran his eyes over the shirts and grinned at the sight of one in particular one with a familiar band's logo on it. Picking it up he said, "They're still popular, eh?"

"Who?"

"The Beatles, o' course."

"I dunno. I jus' sell shirts."

Ringo frowned and placed the shirt back down, deciding that it would be a bit conspicuous if he bought it and Paul wore it while still looking like, well, like Paul McCartney.

"How much is this one," he asked, picking up a peach colored shirt with the British flag in the shape of a profile of a face. On top of the abstract head, sat an old military hat.

"Thirty pounds."

"You must be mental," Ringo said. "I'll give you ten for this cheap rag."

"I'll make it twenty five," the vendor said. "Now you can use the other five for a gas mask to cover up that great hooter of yours. If it would fit that is."

"Keep yer lip up and you won't 'ave one," Ringo threatened, self consciously scratching at his nose. "Fifteen pounds."

"Spilt it and call it twenty."

"I like fifteen."

"And I like twenty."

"Seventeen."

"Deal."


	6. Yer Blues

A/N If I owned the Beatles I would not be here—so I don't own the Beatles (now if you'll all join me in saying that in a British accent )

**George**

He was back on the sidewalk again and a clanging commotion was sprinting between inside and outside of his head.

"What's 'appened to 'im?" Ringo demanded, upon seeing Paul and John surrounding George on the floor.

"'E jus' collapsed," John said.

"'E nearly fainted, that's what," Paul said.

"Well come on then. Stop your starin'. We can't jus' leave 'im 'ere," Ringo said, tossing the shirt to Paul. "Someone 'elp me lift 'im up."

John attempted to be useful for the task but ended up nearly collapsing himself.

"Oi! Where's someone useful when you need them?" Ringo moaned as he heaved the tall lanky boy upright. The smaller man dragged George into the nearest corner store.

"Paul, go change your shirt.

"What about me pants?"

"Priorities, mate," Ringo said, putting George into a seat.

"John, go…never mind, I'll get 'im some ice," Ringo said.

George heard a chair scrape against the floor louder than Ringo on the drums. He furrowed his brow, as if that would block out all the sounds around him.

"Jus' give me some bloody ice!" Ringo had yelled at the shopkeeper.

"I'm warning you!" the shopkeeper shouted back. "I'll call the police, I will!"

George held is hands over his ears, wishing that they were soundproof.

"How you holdin' up, mate?" John asked softly, his breath hitting George's face like a flamethrower.

"Wonderfully," George muttered. "Just perfectly. Couldn't you tell?"

John had smiled but George's eyes were shut too tight to notice.

Suddenly, someone heaved him up and led him out of the store, slapping some frozen cubes of water on his head. He was sat back down on the curb to immerse himself in the frigid water.

"What are we going to do?" Paul wondered.

"I'll go get you some pants," Ringo suggested after a moment of silence.

"You do that."

Ringo got up and left on his quest for pants, leaving the rest of the Beatles to their thoughts.


	7. Run For Your Life

A/N Still busy not owning The Beatles

**John**

He had to plaster his brave face on. Right now, his reasoning was strictly because Paul and Ringo probably would loose their minds if they had any more issues to deal with.

_Just a little bit longer_, John told himself. _You could do it three seconds ago so you can keep it up now. No signs of weakness. Nope. Not here._

His hands rubbing at his back was becoming increasingly instinctive more than anything else—well, other than the bright soreness exploding up his back.

"You're going to rub a 'ole through yerself, John," Paul said. John couldn't tell whether or not he was being sarcastic or sincere. Sometimes with Paul, he could never tell.

"And what a sexy 'ole it'll be," John said. He could practically feel Paul's worried eyes rolling in their sockets.

Ringo rounded the corner again with a pair of blue jeans over his shoulder.

"I swear, if those things are skinny, I'll cripple ya," Paul lightly threatened as he took the pants from his band mate.

"No, them things were much to expensive," Ringo joked. "Maybe next time though."

"An' you'd like that, now wouldn't you," Paul teased, with a flash of his smile over his shoulder as he walked to a more expensive looking store.

"Cheeky," Ringo called. "'Ey, George, share some o' that ice with Lennon. 'E's foldin' up like a chair."

George audibly groaned as Ringo stole some of the ice from his freezing dripping hands and rubbed it under John's shirt, causing the other Beatle to yelp.

"What ya think yer doin'?" John demanded. He wouldn't admit it but it was soothing—in a non-queer, boy-rubbing ice on your bare back kind of way (basically, a way that could only make sense to long time friends).

"Jus' shut up."

John took the drummer's advice and distracted himself with all the sights and sounds around him. All the cars that came rolling up and down the street looked so clean—even the ones that had dirt and bird poo smudged on windows. And another thing was that they all had a roundish look to them—nothing like the regular box shaped cars he had become accustomed to. Distantly, he heard a police siren on the hunt for criminals—or was it an ambulance? They both sounded the same to him.

Someone tossed a coin in their direction—obviously mistaking them for bums. That is what they were here now wasn't it? Just a couple of bums in ratty suits sitting uselessly on the sidewalk.

He felt the ice leave his back and practically growled.

"Ha!" Ringo laughed, gently putting it back on John's sore back.

Everything around was so loud. People laughing and yelling while cars honked and sirens buzzed.

_Annoying,_ John thought. _The world's out to get me by annoying me to death, that's what it is._

He silently huffed his furies until Paul came back picking at his shirt and asking, "What the bloody 'ell are you two doing?"

Ringo rolled his eyes. "Making meself useful, that's what."

Paul held back any comments he could've made and said, "The lot of us should prolly be goin'."

"And why's that?"

"Coppers are out looking for some suspicious figures and by the sounds of it, it might be us."

"Where'd you 'ear that rubbish?"

"They wandered into that store I'd been in an' started asking 'bout four ratty mop top boys," Paul said. "Said they were wanted for robbery an' assault."

"But she jus' fainted!" John complained, joining in on the conversation.

"'Parently didn't come 'cross like that," Paul said. "You know, with you slappin' 'round that face of 'ers."

"I needa smoke," George said.

"We'll get you one when we're out of 'ere," Paul promised, as he draped George's frail-looking arm around his shoulders.

John pulled his body up and separated himself from the frozen peace called ice so he could get a move on. Ringo dropped the ice cubes and started to follow them.

_Today can't get any worse now, can it? _John thought bitterly.

As if to jinx him, a cop car strolled down the street in their direction, slowing down as the driver noticed them.

"Turn. Go," Ringo whispered while trying to inconspicuously turn them back in the other direction. Only problem with that plan was that the cops, who had entered the store Paul had recently left, were coming in their direction.

"Shit," they all muttered in their own time.

They dipped into the nearest alley and the sirens blasted on.

"C'mon, John," Ringo said, grabbing the struggling John and forcing him into a run. At this rate, George had a better chance of escape over John.

Like a corny movie, the boys hit a dead end that involved a brick wall, which would be impossible to climb up—without sprouting wings that is.

"What's that?" Ringo asked, pointing to a ladder attached to what could have been several flights of stairs.

"Useful by the looked of it," Paul said, dragging George over to it. "Rings, grab George. I'll jump up there and pull 'im an' Johnny up."

Ringo obliged while Paul struggled to jump, reach and grab the first rung that hung several feet over head. Catching a lucky break, Paul clasped onto the rung and heaved himself up.

"Okay, now see what you can do 'bout them two," Paul called stretching his arms down like a rope for one of them to grasp when possible.

"George, we'll need to get John up first," Ringo instructed. "Just follow my lead."

The drummer clasped his hands together and George imitated. "Now step on, John."

John braced himself and stepped onto the homemade stairs. After several failed attempts, he managed to snatch one of Paul's hands and hold on long enough to be heaved up.

"There they are!" a copper yelled. "They're makin' an escape! Get 'em!"

A cacophonous tramped of feet narrowed in on them.

"John, get a move on. I'll get 'em two," Paul demanded. "You'll need that head start anyhow."

John willingly followed the instructions, trusting that Paul would save the rest of the group.

"C'mon, Georgie," Ringo said, doing his best to lift said boy up. About five and a half fails later George was pulled up. But the cops had Ringo.

"Go!" he yelled dramatically. "Save yerselves!"

Paul couldn't help but roll his eyes as Ringo ranted at the police.

The three free Beatles went all the way up the stairs and onto the flat roof.

"There's a door," John said, as he hobbled over to it and attempted to yank it open. "Locked."

"Well now what?" George mumbled pessimistically.

John shrugged and stuck his hands in his pockets.

"What's this?" John mumbled as he pulled out a thin little black piece of metal from his pocket. "A bobby pin?"

Paul snatched it from him and started to work on picking the lock. "I've seen this in a cinema once."

"Why'd yer even 'ave that thin'?" George asked giving a look to John that was both questioning and curious.

John had to think back for a second and a wide grin spread across his face as he reminisced in the intimate memory. "Well, there was this bird, really pretty bird—"

"Jus' stop right there," George said putting his hands over his ears.

John smirked.

"Got it!" Paul announced.

George looked over the building's edge and saw the police climbing up the stairs—the one's who weren't pushing Ringo up against the wall and handcuffing him that is.

"Let's go," Paul said, motioning for the two of them to quit gawking and move.

They scrambled inside and locked the door behind them.

"We'll 'ave to 'ide in one of them rooms," Paul said, guiding them down a set of stairs.

"What 'bout Rings? We can't jus' leave 'im," John said.

"'E can take care of 'imself for a little bit," Paul said as he went to one of the nearest doors and starting picking his way into it again. "In with the lot of you."


	8. They Came In Through the Bathroom Window

A/N I wish I owned the Beatles…shame I don't own the Beatles…(bare with me, I'm trying to make these as entertaining as possible)

**Paul**

He paced back and forth while John and George sprawled themselves out on the king sized bed in the room. Upstairs, the sounds of bobbies' shoes banging on the floor echoed into their room.

"Blimey, make 'em stop," George groaned.

Paul ignored him and continued to pace.

A key clicking in the lock went unnoticed by the trio but the two people in the open doorway didn't.

Paul froze and stared at a girl who was about nineteen by the looks of her and a man in his early twenties. Upon first glance, Paul felt it was safe to assume they were currently an item.

"What are you lot doin' in our room?" the boyfriend asked, moving protectively in front of the girl.

Paul's face sunk like the Titanic. "Please, I swear we didn't do anythin' wrong and we won't 'urt you," Paul begged.

"Don't go 'round beggin' to these blokes, Paul," John said, raising his head. "We've still got our pluck if we've anythin'."

"Shut up, John," George muttered.

"You're the one them bobby are all searchin' for?" the girl hesitantly asked searching them all for any obvious sign of criminal-ness— mind you, other than the bruises, they were still a pretty good-looking group.

Paul gave her the puppy dog eyes, trying to silently win her over with his begging and scared-pretty-boy charm.

"Please jus' let us 'ide," he begged.

"Max," the girl started, giving in slightly.

"They're criminals not puppies, Michelle," Max said, frustrated.

"But look at 'em. All battered up an' bruised."

"An' for a good reason if they're on a duck an' dive," Max said just before getting entranced with her pleading stare. "Fine, you win."

Paul let out a breath of relief, thankful that they were finally catching a break.

"But you lot better explain yerselves 'cause I won't 'ave no murderers in me room with me best girl."

Paul nodded and feebly sat down on the edge of the bed. He carefully told them about John and George being mugged, the lady fainting, John trying to slap her awake, and stealing the fish and chips. He made sure to exclude their true identities as well as their decade, since that would just make them sound barking mad.

"An' they're all searching for you all jus' for that?" the Michelle asked.

"Well I figure that when them cops were called, they 'eard the dramatized version," Paul said looking up at her warmly.

There was a knock on the door and Paul froze to stare at it.

"Go, hide in the bathroom," the Michelle said, pulling Paul into said room. "Eric, grab them two."

Max, whose muscle was enough to support them, dragged up John and George and brought them into the bathroom to join Paul.

"Thank you," Paul whispered, as the door was shut.

He pressed his ear against the door like a practiced eavesdropper to listen in on the conversation.

"Excuse me, but 'ave you two seen some suspicious figures around 'ere? They all got similar mop top styled 'air. Two of them might be battered up while the third's got a clean look to 'im," the police officer explained. "They're all rather dangerous, you see."

There was a hesitation. "Nope, not 'round 'ere," Max finally responded.

"Max!" his Michelle squealed.

Paul's insides dropped for about the thousandth time over the course of the day. What was the bird doing?

Just as he'd expected, the door flung open and he looked doe-eyed at the cop standing at the other side. He was roughly pushed against the wall and handcuffed tightly behind his back.

John had been thrown to the floor and cried out in pain as a bobby held him down to the floor by kneeing him in the crook of his back.

"Stop it!" John cried, as his wrists were chained together.

George was roughed up against the wall opposite Paul. He weakly surrendered his hands by placing them behind his back for the cops.

The group was dragged out of the bathroom to be greeted with cries of, "Max! How could you! 'E ratted out on you lot, 'e did! I'm sorry!"

Paul threw a death glare at both of them. He didn't care for their excuses. They were both a bunch of lying rats as far as he was concerned. Later on, he knew he'd look back on it and feel bad for all the vile things that he thought about the two but at the moment it was all he could do.

"Piss off," he heard John mutter as he was hauled past the couple.

They were dragged to the outside, where people were clapping and cheering at the coppers' success.

He rolled his eyes as he was pushed into the police car that already held Ringo captive in it. George and John were placed in their own police car, seeing as the lot of them all together wouldn't fit.

"'Ow you 'oldin' up," Ringo murmured to Paul.

"No talkin' back there," a mean looking bobby said as they pulled out of the spot the car had been parked in.

Paul waited until he felt it was safe. "Seen better days."

"I said no talkin'!" the officer repeated, glaring at the two through the rearview mirror.

They all sat silently for the rest of the ride until they were parked in front of a police station. They were led up the stairs and into the station.

"Sit," an officer commanded, gesturing to a bench nailed against the wall.

Ringo shared a questioning look with Paul that Paul responded to with a shrug. They sat down and waited for further instruction.

Soon enough, John and George joined them—more like stumbled drunkenly to them.

"We've no clue what's wrong with the two," one of the bobby said.

"Are they mullered?"

"No, they're completely coherent and that bit," one explained. "They might jus' be real sick…or high…or jus' plain barking."

"'Ey!" John said, as if the notion was both rude and important.

Paul turned to his band mates. "At least they're not gutted 'bout us being The Beatles an' all that."

"We're going inside an' that's all you've got to say?" John growled.

"Don't get yer knickers in a twist," Paul said, causing John to grumble vile things incoherently under his breath.


	9. Not Guilty

A/N Is it a bird? Is it a plane? Is it me not owning the Beatles? I'll go with the latter…

**Ringo**

"You," a cop said, pointing the shortest of the mop haired boys.

Ringo looked up, surprised and wider-eyed.

"Yeah you. 'Ere now."

Ringo hesitantly got up and cautiously walked to the cops.

"Explain yerself."

He furrowed his eyebrows. "Yer gonna put us inside but you've no idea what we've done?"

"Don't be smart."

"Should I be dumb?"

He got the classic glare that you'd expect from an angry parent after a wisecracked remark as such.

"John walked up to the counter of the luncheonette and the lady jus' passed out. So 'e 'opped the counter and was tryin' to wake 'er when those men pulled 'im out. Paul took some fish an' chips 'cause we were hungry an' didn't 'ave any readies," Ringo explained. "Then yer lot chased us about an' the lads were jus' fending for themselves...Sir"

"An' why're them two all ruffed up?"

"They were mugged earlier."

"'Course they did. We're gonna need some ID."

"'Course," Ringo said, pulling out his wallet from his jacket pocket with much difficulty due to the cuffs. "The lads don't 'ave theirs on account they were stolen."

He turned his back to them so they'd be able to snatch the leather wallet from his famous hands.

"Richard Starkey, eh?" the bobby who flipped open the wallet and took a look his ID said. "Someone look that name up in the system."

"You might not find it," he mumbled, remembering the year.

"That name sounds awful familiar," one of the coppers said.

He kept his gob shut, not wanting to raise more suspicion than he was about to.

"An' what'd you say them three's names are?"

"I didn't."

A lady-bobby exaggerated a sigh. "Then tell us, son."

He flipped a rude look at her and immediately regretted it seeing as she still was a lady fellow. "John, Paul, an' George."

"Last names."

It was like pulling teeth without the support of Novocain for him at this point. "Lennon, McCartney, an' Harrison."

There was a long silence before all the station started cracking up like exploding eggs on a farm.

"What's so funny?" Ringo demanded only to encourage the amusement-park laughs in the room.

"You really 'ad us goin' there, son," one said between laughs.

"Goin' where?"

"With the whole 'Richard Starkey' bit!"

"Like yer all _really_ The Beatles!"

"HA!"

"Well if yer lot didn't want the truth you could've jus' said so," Ringo grumbled as he sat back on the bench.

"What's got 'em all fired up?" Paul asked.

"Make 'em shut up," George moaned though a wheeze.

"They don't believe who we are," Ringo explained. "And what's worse is you three don't 'ave any identification on 'and."

"You four. Up 'ere now."

The quartet looked up and obliged—George and John with some more difficulty due to their afflictions mixed with the handcuffs.

"There a problem, sir?" Paul asked.

"Follow me."

Several of the bobbies led them to another room where they were de-shacked from the wrist-rings.

"We're going to need yer real names now," one said as he picked up four black signs and several removable white letters and numbers.

"I already told you sir," Ringo started.

"None of that Fab Four malarkey now, son."

"But it's who we are," Paul insisted.

"What other names do you want us to be fuckin' called," John said with clearly pronounced frustration.

"I'll 'ave none o' that lip, boy. We jus' want yer names."

John practically snarled as he stuck out his hand and put on his mock-interview voice. "Howdy, pal, I'm John-fucking-Lennon. Born on October 9, 1940. I enjoy long walks on the beach and Brigitte Bardot. Known for me feisty personality."

"Someone fingerprint 'em."

Each of their hands were snatched and pressed on a pad of black ink. Soon after their smudged fingers were rubbed against some thick looking parchment.

"Now run their fingerprints through the system. We'll 'ave their names soon enough."

The Beatles rolled their eyes, practically in unison.

They were each handed a sign with their number and the name of the station they were currently in.

"You first, Shorty," one of them said, pulling Ringo by the arm and in front of a wall with lines and numbers, which he felt safe to assume were there to represent their height.

"Front."

He held up the sign and stared at the camera with a blank stare like that of a high man lost in space.

"That hooter of 'is is going to take up the whole shot," he heard someone say.

"'Ey!" he shouted.

"Left."

He turned to the left, consciously realizing how large it would make his poor neb seem. There were several poorly concealed chuckles.

"Right."

"Wouldn't 'urt to say please," he grumbled, trying to protect what little pride that hadn't been sucked from his nose.

He listened for the click before stepping away.

"You," the bobby said, pointing to Paul. "Here."

Paul followed the same instructions that Ringo had just been given—though his wise mouth remarks had only been used for sad attempts at an explanation.

Next was George, who resorted to muttering foul swears under his breath and asking for a ciggy.

Last went John.

"Front."

He turned to the back.

"Whocher tryin' ter do, son?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. I've direction issues, you see."

He turned to the front and smiled sweetly batting his lashes.

"Get that smirk off yer face."

"But that's a depressing photo, that is," John said with a honey coated bitterness. "Generally, when people want my face on film they'd rather I look happy…even it _is_ just for the sake of irony."

He kept up his grin and they snapped the picture.

"Left."

He turned to the right.

"I'd be in me right mind if I'd beat you right 'ere," the frustrated bobby said. "Be doin' the world a favor, gettin' rid of that lip o' yers."

John bent down on one knee and clasped his hands together, temporarily ignoring the wild shots of pain sprinting through his back. "Please, don't smite me, good sir!"

"Shut up, you nutter. Left."

John smirked to conceal his pain and turned to the left.

"Right."

"Right," John repeated.

An officer sighed. "Turn to the right, son.

"A please might 'elp," John said. "An' since when'd I become yer son. I was born in the forties, I was. You lot outta be _my_ sons."

"Yer sure young for the forties," the oldest cop with a balding head of hair said sarcastically. "_Son_."

"Yer probably one of me fans that's jus' too old ter remember."

The balding cop grabbed John by the arm and swung him to the right.

"Take the picture with none o' yer damned lip, boy," he growled.

John stared into the cop's murderous glare and wiggled his eyebrows. "Alright pops."

They snapped the picture before John had any time to screw it up.


	10. Bad Boy

A/N Still don't own the Beatles ***sigh***

**George**

George and the rest of the group were pushed into four small cells opposite each other that were locked behind them. He checked his temper, sat down on the lone chair in the room, and inspected the sad deflated pillow on the bed attached to the wall. He peered through the bars and to the band mates he could see—which temporarily were John and Ringo.

Had he been in trouble with the law before? Sure he had—they were wiseass musicians. Could anyone expect any different? Deportation and arrest were pretty common actually. They basically had those procedures down pact.

But this _was_ different. Now they didn't have anyone to bail them all out. They were basically stuck with each other—whether they wanted or be or not. No one was going to help them out this time.

"Anyone got any bright ideas?" he heard Paul ask from the cell next to him. It was a shame he couldn't actually see him though due to the bland wall separating them.

"Nope," Ringo said, looking across the room and at Paul.

"Nada," John pouted, throwing a rather rude look at Paul.

George stood up and kicked the chair across the small room, causing it to bounce against the wall and land right back in front of him.

"Oi there, mate," Ringo said.

"Don't! Even! Fucking! START! WITH! ME!" he yelled, beating the chair senseless.

He yelled out several more obscenities, much to his friends' surprise—they honestly had never seen this side of the young guitarist before. Not in bar fights, or opposing band beat downs, or when he'd taken one too many Prellies, or days without sleep and nonstop work—hell, he wasn't even this miffed that time when they had been coming off stage and John knocked into him causing him to trip down the stairs and snap all his guitar strings.

Finally, some of the cops came around and started yelling at him, as if that was the most sensible way to calm the boy down. His chest violently heaved up and down for a few seconds before grabbing the bars like a caged animal and trying to tear them down.

"Just GIVE ME A FUCKIN' GIGERETTE!" he yelled. "DAMN IT!"

John slapped his hand over his face, deciding that he couldn't watch anymore.

"Temper! Temper!" Ringo yelled.

"Georgie, calm down, mate," Paul tried to reason, pressing himself up against the bars to try to catch a peek of how bad George really was.

"I. WILL. NOT. CALM. DOWN." he shouted. "We're in the wrong fucking year for Christ's sake! And we've no way back in case you've forgotten!"

"Someone get 'im in isolation!" the old cop called.

Several wisely hesitant cops unlocked the cell and roughly re-cuffed George with the cold chains so that his wrists were practically bruised from them.

The yanked him out and pulled him further to the back of the station. After un-cuffing his wrists, they pushed him into similar sized room and onto the floor.

"Damned wanker," someone muttered as the thick metal door with nothing but a tiny barred window was shut and locked.

He pulled himself up and sat himself down on the thin cot.

_Damn it,_ he heard himself think somewhere in the clotting corners of his brain.

He brooded for what felt like hours but was probably only two or three minutes. He impatiently got up and peaked through the small window. He thought he could see John's fingers gripping the bars but it was too far too far away to tell for sure.

He wanted to scream and yell to them but decided against it seeing as it would probably be useless anyways. The door alone would be enough to block the sound from the others. Plus, it would probably end up reverberating back at him and making him even more frustrated.

He gave the door a kick before sitting himself back down.

"Where's my stupid guitar when I need it," he groaned before he started to pick at thee dead skin around his fingers to pass the time.


	11. Bad To Me

A/N: Guess what! I don't own the Beatles! Oh and sorry if Georgie's coming across so mean—it was the only way this story would work. I promise he's in my top four favorite Beatles :D

**John**

"We tell them that a bunch of wankers mugged us and _we're_ the ones they decide to arrest," John mumbled, replacing his hands on his thighs. "It's _them_ they should be after. We're just easier targets seeing as we're already done over."

"Make sure to mention that to the judge, will ya," Ringo said.

"Shut up, Rings," he growled.

A guard walked down the hall with four plastic wrapped pieces of orange cloth.

"Put it on," she said, stuffing them through the bars.

John unwrapped it and held it up. "I'm not wearing this. It's dead grotty."

"Yeah and where are we supposed to put 'em on anyway," Paul added. "There's no bathroom."

"So?"

John muttered several foul swears under his breath. "Well you're not jus' gonna stand there an' watch now are you?"

"Oh yes I am," she replied. "Believe it or not, I get paid for this."

He could practically feel Paul and Ringo's mouths hanging agape.

"Then I'm going on strike," John said, dropping the jumpsuit onto his cot. "This thin' could use another blanket anyway."

"Jus' put it on before the lot of you get in any more trouble."

"An' tell me, what more trouble could we possibly get into?"

"You know, you've quite the gob on hand."

"It's a gift. Got it last Christmas, I did."

"Tell you what," she started, as she pulled out her police bat. "If you put the suit on, I won't beat you senseless. How's that sound?"

John slowly stood up and spread out his arms with a smile. "Give me yer worst. Prolly won't even feel it anyhow."

"How's George doing?" Paul asked, trying to distract the murderous looking cop.

The bobby ignored him and slammed the bat against the bars. "Yer really lookin' for it aren't you, sonny? I've dealt with the likes of yer sort before though."

"Yeah? An' how'd that work out?"

"They all squealed like tortured baby pigs, that's how."

"Prolly weren't the real thin' then, were they. What's the sayin', Paulie?"

Paul sighed. "All bark, no bite."

"That's it!"

"Jus' put on the jumpsuit."

"No."

"That's it," she said, unlocking the bars.

The re-handcuffed John, grabbed him by his mop top hair, and dragged him out.

John threw a look to Paul, that he knew he would have to understand for this to be worth it all. Paul rolled his eyes and nodded then shared the conversation with Ringo using only his eyes. Ringo nodded like an excited puppy and accidently caught the guard's attention.

"What're yer likes noddin' at?" she demanded.

He shook his head and widened his big blue eyes. "Nothin'. Jus' noddin'. I'm a drummer you see. I nod loads."

The bobby sighed and dragged John so that he was bent over and practically kneeing to her height. He forced himself to hold back his whimpers though.

He was dragged into the isolation room next to George's. He realized the small window on the door might end up being a challenge for Paul if the guard decided to look out of it.

_Just keep her distracted,_ he told himself.

The guard re-cuffed his arms so that they were around a thick pipe on the wall and held up her bat like batter at batting practice. The first hit was a surprise—straight down on his spine. His feet collapsed underneath him but the cuffs held him up at an odd angle.

"_OI_!"

"What?" the copper whispered. "Already knackered?"

He gritted his teeth and forced himself up. "Me? Never."

"Good."

It took her fifteen more whacks to get him down again.

_This has got to be illegal,_ he thought. _Prolly is but no ones around here for us to care._


	12. Flying

A/N: I…don't own The Beatles, all niiight…and party everyday (there's a tune you have to think that to for it to make sense)

**Paul**

He pulled out the bobby pin and got to work as quickly as he could.

"Wait, _that's_ what you were trying ter say?" Ringo asked incredulously.

"Yeah. What'd you think I was trying to say?" as he stepped out and started to work on Ringo's cell.

He grumbled something under his breath.

"Sorry. Didn't quite catch that."

"I said, I thought you were gonna join John's strike."

"Well, I guess we stepped up from that now didn't we," he said as he gently pulled the bars open to release the drummer as silently as possible.

"I guess we did."

"Let's go get George," Paul said, as the pair of them snuck down the hall.

Paul got started with trying to pick George's lock but it was proving to be much harder than the rest of the locks he'd tried at that day. And as an added bonus, he had to focus to ignore the muffled yelling coming from the room next door.

"'Ey! What are them twos doin'?" one of two guards down the hall yelled.

"They're makin' an escape, that's what!" the second yelled, dropping the sad looking sandwiches that had probably been meant for them.

"Hold 'em off, Rings!" Paul said, as he picked more frantically.

Ringo held his hands up like a scared ninja master and attempted to gently fight them off.

Paul peeked over his shoulder to catch a glimpse at the sad battle. "Whocher think yer doin'?"

"It's me good nature!" he yelled as he tried to throw a punch that would both save him and not hurt the guard. "I can't stand makin' them be in pain! It 'urts me 'eart!"

"You grew up surrounded with gangs! How can yer not know 'ow to fight!"

"I didn't like to!" he yelled throwing another softy punch. "Sorry!"

Paul unlocked the door and threw it open. George lifted his head from where it had been sitting in his hand and stared blankly at Paul.

"Well, come on then!" Paul said. "Ringo's getting 'is arse done over!"

George bounced up and sprinted through the door, as if he could run fast enough to leave his pounding head behind. George and Paul threw themselves straight into the guards to knock them over.

"C'mon," Ringo said, as he grabbed his mates and started to take off towards freedom—not before snatching up the abandoned sandwiches and shoving them in his pockets though.

"We've still got ter get John!" Paul said, as he turned around and jammed the bobby pin into the lock. "Hold 'em off!"

The lady officer in John's room caught a glimpse of the large-eyed mop top boy through the small window and started to open the door. Paul took advantage of this and yanked it wide open, slightly unbalancing the guard. He tackled her to the ground, not wanting to see what George and Ringo had gotten into. Quickly, he snatched her bat and scrambled to he feet so he could try to smash the handcuffs off of John's wrists.

"Who'd you think that's going ter 'elp?" John yelled after Paul's first failed attempt.

Paul would've rolled his eyes if he had enough time. Instead he grabbed the bobby pin and started picking away. It took him under thirty seconds before he had unlocked the shackles and been taken down by the lady guard.

"Umf!" he grunted, as the bobby socked him in the gut and the breath left his chest.

John untangled himself from the pipe before weakly tossing himself at the cop. Paul pushed the two of them off him and grabbed John.

"Go! Run!" Paul yelled as he pulled the nearly limp form of John down the hall.

Ringo and George both abandoned their fight—George wheezing but still holding up and glad to let go of the increasing brain tension with some good old fashion fighting.

Ringo grabbed the other half of John under his shoulders so that both he and Paul could support his weight. They took off in a full sprint, leaving behind all the yelling and threats of capture. They stumbled down the stairs and hesitated.

"That way!" Paul yelled pulling John and Ringo in the opposite direction of that which they had came from.

They ran through the trees and bushes of the small woods they had entered. They dipped in and out of green thickets and leaves for what felt like hours before Paul finally suggested that they rest some.

"Here," he said, passing John's full weight over to Ringo. Paul grabbed hold of a low hanging branch and pulled himself up. "Now pass 'im to me."

Ringo passed him up with enough struggle to require George's assistance.

"C'mon, Lennon," Paul groaned as he pulled John further and further up the tree. Closely following behind were George then Ringo. The Beatles relaxed once they were about twenty or twenty-five feet above the ground. Paul put himself against the tree's trunk and propped John up against himself so he could keep him from slipping off. Ringo checked Paul and did the same with George.

"They're jus' a bunch of petty little police men sitting in a row like they own the world," John muttered, half-consciously and half-asleep.

"Ha!" Ringo laughed.

"Hey, that's a good line. Make sure you remember that in case we ever need it," Paul said with a gentle chortle.

"Mmmm hmmm."

John and George passed out in a matter of seconds, leaving Paul and Ringo to their thoughts and the gentle symphonies of George's light wheeze.

"'Ey, what were you doin' yesterday?" Ringo whispered, so not to disturb his two unconscious friends.

"You mean the last time we were awake?" Paul whispered back. "All those years ago."

"Jus' answer the question Rip Van Winkle."

Paul grinned and thought back. "I think I was catching a kip for the first time in a few days…'Ey! That'd explain why I woke up in that bird's bed!"

"You think she might've noticed an unconscious bloke laying in 'er bed for years on end."

"Unless I'd only, I dunno, appeared there at that moment," Paul suggested.

"That'd make sense," Ringo agreed.

"Would it?"

The two paused for a second before laughing.

"Shhhh," Paul tried to scold between laughs. "The bobby'll 'ear us."

"Or John'll wake up an' throw a fit."

"I dunno," Paul said in a faux reasoning voice. "George 'as been growing quite the temper as well."

"Like he's channeling in on John's spirit or something."

"Wouldn't surprise me at this point."


	13. Three Cool Cats

A/N: I wish I may, I wish I might, but I still don't own the Beatles tonight.

**Ringo**

"What were you doing?" Paul asked.

Ringo pursued his lips and gazed at the branch above him for a moment.

"I think I was going somewhere. Dunno where…" he said, trailing off and looking down at his hands. "Oh! It was the jewelers!"

"Pansy."

"What? Oh, no not like that. Me ring," he said lifting his right hand to let Paul view the cracked gem on one of his rings. "Needed to get it fixed up, that's all."

"How'd that 'appen. You usually take good care of them rings."

"Well I tripped and found it lying there all broken an' whatnot on the floor. Figured I musta broke it so I put it on and went to get it fixed."

"You always were dead clumsy."

"'Ey! That's not me fault!"

"Then whose is it then?"

Ringo had just finished muttering an obscenity that might've made his mum cry when his ears picked up on some quiet footsteps.

"Shhh," Paul said softly as if he'd just read Ringo's mind.

He nodded and held himself as still as a wax figurine.

And John snored.

Paul's hand reached over and pinched John's nose shut. He used his other hand to squeeze John's cheeks enough so that his mouth would open and he'd be able to breath.

"I can't believe I'm doing this," Paul murmured as he turned his disgusted face away from the sleeping lad—much to Ringo's amusement.

With that taken care of, they were left to hope that George's wheeze would go unnoticed.

Ringo held his fingers up to his mouth and began to chew at the fingernails.

There were several barks nearing in on the tree.

"Shit," Ringo murmured.

"Shhh."

They waited patiently until several mean looking Rottweiler's paused by the tree and started sniffing around its base.

Ringo bit down nervously on his lip wishing for a miracle to pop out somewhere.

The cop's hushed voices were gaining on them though.

_And we're stuck in a tree. A tree of all fucking things,_ he thought. _How in hell are we supposed to suss this one out?_

There was more rustling coming from the complete opposite direction of the police.

Paul shot a questionable look to Ringo to which Ringo's only silent response could be a shrug. The purebred mutts gave them a more hopeful answer though and rushed towards it. There was a moment when all they heard were the padded dogs' feet pounding the floor before a snarl followed by a small struggle.

The bobbies ran past their tree on the hunt for whatever else might've been stowing out in between the leaves.

"That was close," Ringo sighed. Looking back to Paul, he realized that something was off with him though—as if traveling through half a century wasn't enough. "What?"

Paul reeled his sight back in to Ringo and whispered, "Did you see who distracted them?"

"Well I was a bit preoccupied seeing as we're fugitives and whatnot."

Paul restrained himself from rolling his eyes. "I could barely catch a glimpse. They were definitely people though."

"They?" Ringo questioned. "And you couldn't see anything?"

"I dunno, might've been two guys by the looks of it," Paul said hesitantly, as he tried to peer back down to the ground and focus in on whatever had distracted the guard dogs and police.

They sat silently and waited until either one deemed it safe to make a run for civilization.

"Mmmm," John hummed as he joined them in the conscious world.

"Didn't quite catch that," Paul whispered, not completely sure of whether or not John was awake or just talking in his kip.

John sniffled and glanced over to Paul while pretending to flutter his eyelashes. "The sky looks nice…what color's it?"

"How would you not know what…?"Paul started. "You don't 'ave yer glasses now do you, John?"

John smiled his lazy sheepish John smile. "They might've been nicked."

Paul rolled his eyes. "Honest John, what are we supposed to do with you?"

Ringo watched as John's classic smile grew for a moment before dissipating back into his crazy John thoughts—thoughts that John, and John alone, could make complete sense of.

"It's not quite yellow now, is it?" John pondered. "Or red."

"Why not just split it and call it orange?" Paul suggested, bouncing his ideas off John like he was in the studio and not on tree limb in the future.

"Did you come up with that name yerself?" John teasingly accused. "'Cause you'd make a fortune off it if they decided to name crayons after it."

"Promise I'll give you some credit if that ever catches on," Paul promised, going with it.

"Really?"

"No."

John barked out his scratchy just-woke-up laugh.

"Shhh," Ringo warned. "The bobby. Remember?"

"Screw 'em," John said, grinning like a drunk idiot.

"You know I'd prolly go 'long with that if it were anytime other than now," Ringo said matter-of-factly.

John stopped himself from throwing out another one of his laughs and traded it with a simple—and silent—thumb up before turning his head back up to the sky.

"I don't think I've ever heard that color though," John said.

The two nodding their agreements—they _were _still Beatles and hearing colors was just something they could do. It was almost like a musical sixth sense that they shared and could incorporate into their music.

"It's like a gamboge," Paul suggested.

"What's that?" Ringo wondered.

"It's an underappreciated shade of orange," Paul explained. "Like a bull's-eye between red and orange."

Ringo grunted in understanding.

"It's more like a carrot orange," John sighed as he put his hands behind his head and perked up. "Oh, I've got it! Marmalade."

"Isn't that a jam?" Ringo asked.

"It's more of a fruit preserve," John said.  
"So it's a jam," Ringo repeated.

"Well if you'd like to call it that," John said, starting to nod off again and giving it away with a yawn. "Marmalade skies, that's what they are…sounds pretty."

John let his head loll back onto Paul's shoulder as he passed out again.

Ringo sighed and let his head lean against the tree's hard body.

_Marmalade skies,_ he wondered. _Only John._


	14. Nobody I Know

A/N: I do not own the Beatles (creative right?)

**George**

It must have been at least an hour since he'd nodded off. For him, it was an eternity—if he'd ever appreciated anything, it was a sleep. In any way, shape, and form he willingly accepted it. No complaints whatsoever.

Look at him now: a lanky boy from the sixties sitting in a tree hanging about twenty feet above the ground with a head throbbing more than a drum set during Starr-time and a throat dryer than the desert while on a duck and dive from the bobby. Sleep was quiet. Sleep was un-stressful. Sleep was good.

"'Ey!"

He felt Ringo flinch at the new noise and nearly feel off the tree himself.

"Yeah, you lot," the voice called again. "Come down 'ere."

There was a hesitation.

"Make me," Paul yelled, figuring that it was the old bobby who'd been picked on by John, "ya bloody geezer!"

If George had been fully awake, he might've thought that John had said it. Seeing as John was busy sleeping through the little exchange happening, Paul had taken the sarcasm into his own hands and made it his right to throw it where he pleased.

"Stop with the gab and get yer bloody arse down 'ere, son!" the man yelled, obviously determined for whatever reason.

"I'm not anyone's 'son' 'ere damn it!"

"The right's reserved to me seeing as I've nothin' else to call you."

That one sentence alone nearly knocked Paul out of the tree.

"Who the 'ell do you think you bloody are!" Ringo pitched, slightly moving George as he attempted to peer down to the ground without dropping off the branch.

"Stop movin'," George complained.

"Shut yer gabs," John moaned.

"It's gobs," George corrected.

John rolled his eyes. "'Geez, thanks, George. That helps."

"Come down 'ere you lot an' stop yer chatter," the man called. "Unless you _want_ to 'ave them bobby chasin' yer likes 'round."

They all waited for someone to step up and make the decision.

"Well how much worse can it get, right?" John said as he pushed himself into a more comfortable position. "Now help me down, Paulie. I'm an old man 'ere you know."  
With plenty of indescribable struggle, they made it back to the ground.

"Oi! You lot take longer than I do!" the vaguely familiar man exclaimed.

"Don't put yer money down on that horse, pops," John said, contradicting himself as he held his back like an old man might after getting out of bed for the first time in months.

George noticed the way the old man's eyes lit up at the sight of John's wise mouth remark though.

"C'mon then," he said, still watching John in fascination.

"Who are you?" George inquired suspiciously.

"Doesn't matter," he said, shifting that glowing amazement to George. "Let's go."

The four shared a look before one of them shrugged. Ringo and Paul moved to help John move faster leaving George to his own devices.

"Need some help there?" the geezer said kindly, noticing George's strain.

George sized him up, wondering whether or not he should hinder the man. Another 'bout of waves thundering through his head and threatening to break loose made up his mind for him.

They cut through the woods at a speed that might've made a snail jealous and a cat laugh. But in the end, they managed to weed through in enough time.

The old man pulled out his keys and clicked the doors for his car opened with some sort of small foreign device.

"What's that?" Paul asked.

"Keys to the car."

"It's a nice car," Paul said, trying to make casual conversation.

"It's a rental."

"Still nice. What type is it?"

"2007 Skoda Roomster…wait, yer not 'loud to know that…I take it back."

"Well, you can't do that. It's already out there," Ringo protested motioning with his hands to the 'out there' he was talking about.

"Jus' get in the car."

"How do we know yer not trying to kidnap us?" John muttered. He wouldn't admit it but he was a little confused by the whole goodness-of-his-heart thing that the geezer was trying to push on them. Plus, there was something about the man that John couldn't quite put his finger on—none of them could—and it was getting very frustrating. "What'd you say yer name was again?"

"I said it didn't matter," the man said. "But you can call me…Jude."

"Why the hesitation?" John questioned.

"Why the lip?" Jude spat back. He immediately looked ashamed of himself, like he'd done some huge wrong with his self-defense sarcasm. "C'mon you lot. We 'aven't got all day."

They all piled into the backseat of the car until Paul was the only one left out.

"Jus' sit in shotgun, Paul," Jude suggested.

Paul obliged without protest and sat himself in the comfortable, lighter-than-beige seat.

"How'd you know his name?" Ringo asked.

As if to avoid the question, Jude stepped on the pedal and all but flew down the road. Everyone started whipping on the safety belts that were usually left to hang behind them when anyone of them went for a drive. If everyone in this time drove like this though, it was probably smartest to have seatbelts in every car.

The only good news about the ballistic driving was that it got them to Jude's hotel faster than the sound of a clap reaches the ears. Jude led them to his room and seemed to size up the quartet.

He sighed in relief and pulled John into a tight brotherly hug.

"Oi! What're you doing, ya old geezer!"

Jude held John within an arm's length of himself and sighed again, not letting his eyes almost being held hostage by John's face.  
"What's up with you?" George asked, trying to comprehend the situation as quickly as possible.

Jude diverted his attention so he could hand it over to George.

He sighed again and nearly lit George on fire with the light of his smile. "Georgie."

He pulled George into his arms next and just held him there for a moment. He swung the younger boy arm's length of himself and stared at him. George managed a gasp of breath and an idiotic look crossed his face.

"Do we know you?" Paul demanded, suddenly becoming both possessive and worried about the situation. They _had_ only just met the geezer. Maybe they had judged him wrongly and shouldn't have been so trusting.

Jude actually laughed at that. "I'm surprised that you, of all people, are asking that!"

Paul's eyes huddled together as if they were the to lone survivors of a plane crash and left on the deserted island of Paul's face. "If the year is 2010, this is the future for us. We can't know you."

Jude laughed his oh-so-familiar laugh once more before saying, "Ah, but you've put yer finger right on it haven't you."

"I'm afraid I don't understand."

He smiled softly and dismissed the matter. "I've got to go get…Billy back from the bobby so…just stay…and don't go and break anythin'."

Jude took a final look at John and George before turning around, leaving, and locking the door behind him.


	15. One and One is Two is one

A/N: The Beatles, I don't own thou.

**John**

There was another one of their increasingly popular silences before RIngo stepped up to talk.

"Well, now I feel bloody neglected," Ringo pouted. "He didn't even glance at me."

Paul grimaced and said, "Something isn't right about this."

John sat himself down on the corner of on of the two beds in the room at the speed of an old man in the hospital. "It's all rather dodgy innit?"

George laid himself on the second bed and agreed.

"But he's helping us…right?" Paul tried to reason, mostly for the sake of himself. "I mean, there isn't anyone 'ere that he can really kidnap us from now, is there? That'd just be pointless."

"But he doesn't know that now, does he," John supplied, letting Paul have his moment as temporary leader.

"True," Paul agreed, still slightly bewildered by the entire situation.

"I don't think e's trying to snatch us," Ringo said. "He's got a weird vibe to 'im. Like we should know 'im."

"Shut yer bloody gobs," George moaned from under a pillow.

"Maybe we do know 'im," John said. "He does look a bit familiar…you don't think—"

"What?" Ringo and Paul demanded immediately.

John grinned. This would be fun. "Maybe 'e's one of us."

Another silence walked past them at a painfully slow speed.

"He sort of got Paul's eyes," John said, trying to smother his laugh. "Looks like you never lose those mile-long lashes now do ya, Paulie."

Now John and Ringo were both choked by waves of oncoming laughter. Paul turned a shade of red that would have made lava look white only to increase his friends' laughter.

"Shut up," Paul and George said in unison.

It took the two quite some time to actually reign in control of the outburst.

"Okay," Paul said, trying to maintain a serious composure despite the idiotic grins he had to talk to, "so why would he—I—lie about his—my—name."

"Shouldn't you already know that?" John questioned through his eternal smirk.

"Not yet I shouldn't," Paul said, distracting himself by picking around the drawers between the two beds. He picked up a pack of cigarettes and lit one up for himself before tossing them to George. "'Ave a bash."

George scrambled to quickly light one up and practically inhale the nicotine and other chemicals he knew just about nothing of.

"Slow down there, son," John said, watching the smoke come out of George's mouth like a chimney during a white winter. John couldn't help but laugh when George practically growled at him. "Pass me one."

George had to have a moment's hesitation to think it over and eventually handed one to John along with the lighter.

"I wouldn't mind one either," Ringo said, slightly hesitant after hearing George's little snarl.

George reluctantly passed another one to Ringo before stowing the rest of the pack in his pocket—much to John's amusement.

"'Ere," John said, lighting up Ringo's ciggy and tossing the lighter back to George.

They all took a nice, long, group drag before sirens started to go off.

"What now?" John complained. As if to make the situation that much worse, water started to shower them and screams flew throughout the hallways.

"Damn it," Paul muttered.

"Prolly us," Ringo said morosely.

"Why's that?" Paul asked.

"Everythin' else that's gone array today has been our faults, now hasn't it?"

"Pessimist," John muttered. "Let's get out of 'ere."

"What about Jude," Paul asked.

"You mean _you_?" John asked with his grin spreading back across his fac . "We'll 'ave to wait for 'im—you—outside I figure."

He nodded and, with Ringo's help, they pulled John up and started out towards the door.

"Come on, George," Paul called. George followed with less resistance, happy that he could finally enjoy a ciggy—well, with all the noise, it wasn't so much enjoying but more of a fulfilling thing to do.

They waited outside and watched all the panicking people bustling about. A tall man in a suit tried to calm the crowd with promises of "everything's under control" and "the firefighters are coming" for the first half of the hysteria. Then he caught sight of the four Beatles watching the scene through their tranquil eyes and matching cigarettes hanging out of their mouths.

"You four!" he yelled.

"Told you," Ringo muttered.


	16. Hello Goodbye

A/N: In case it is not obvious to anyone, I don't own the Beatles.

**Paul**

"Yes, sir?" Paul said, ignoring Ringo's quip.

"Whocher think yer doing with them things!"

"What? These?" Paul said fingering his ciggy.

"Yeah those!" the man—probably a manager—exclaimed. He took it that Paul was the 'ringleader' since he had been the first to speak and directed all his questions/demands to him. "Is he even old enough to 'ave them!"

Mr. Manager—as Paul decided to nickname him—snatched the cigarette from George's mouth only to get a smack upside the head from the lanky boy.

"George!" Paul exclaimed leaving John to Ringo so he could apologize to Mr. Manager.

More sirens blasted behind them, nearly scaring the pants off all four boys. "This is lunacy," Paul heard one of his mates—Ringo maybe—mutter.

Policemen and firemen charged past them all and into the hotel to look for the nonexistent flames of hell that they thought were burning inside.

After the manager had been pulled away to explain what was happening, George lit up another cigarette for himself.

"Let's leave," Paul said, rejoining Ringo's struggle to hold John.

"What about Jude—you?" Ringo asked.

"He'll—I'll—damn it! Jude will find us later," Paul said, getting frustrated. "The bobbies' are 'ere an' they might recognize us."

Without further debate, they left Paul to choose which way. He picked a random direction and they started speed walking in that direction as fast as they could.

"Boys!" Jude yelled from inside his car.

They all perked up and ran straight to the car with no questions asked. They all piled in the back since another man had taken shotgun.

"What did you lot do!" Jude—or was it Paul—yelled as the car sped down the street.

"Nothing wrong!" Paul exclaimed. "We just wanted a smoke! There's no 'arm in that!"

The man in shotgun laughed only to be smacked by Jude. "It's not funny!"

"Don't be a spoilsport."

"Spoilsport my arse," Jude growled. "It's not on fire is it?"

"It'd take an idiot to set a place on fire 'cause of a ciggy," Ringo said.

"That's just what I'm worried about."

"I—He's not an idiot!" the second man defended. Jude smacked his arm again and pulled the car into a tight spot.

"Are we getting out?" George asked. "'Cause I think I'm gonna be sick."

"Not in the rental yer not," Jude said. "Jus' roll down the window."

"How?" George asked. "There aren't any 'andles."

"Press the little rectangle button."

"Whoa," George said in amazement as the window rolled itself down at the touch of a button.

As the smoke wafted out of the window the two front seat passengers glanced at each other. Jude shook his head, disagreeing to whatever it was that his friend wanted him to agree to.

"We've got to talk," his friend said. "Come on."

"Why not," John said. "Come kiddies, the oldies wanna 'ave a word."

They all shuffled out of the car and followed Jude's pal into a corner store—this time, stomping out their ciggies before entrance.

"You lot take the booth," Jude said, pulling up two chairs for himself and his buddy.

They all took their time to settle down, sensing that this conversation would probably go the same way they rest of their day had gone: south.

"So Macca, when did you get so old?" John asked, nudging Paul but looking at the older Paul.

"I'm still here," young Paul said.

"How'd you guess?" older Paul—lets just call him Macca—asked.

"Those lashes—they're just a dead give away."

Macca laughed. "I should 'ave known."

"'Ave you lot gotten me yet? Or am I still a mystery?"

"'Coarse, you must be me," Ringo said. "That means…I think I'm having a conversation with meself…"

Older Ringo—lets call him Richie—laughed. "S'pose we are."

"Sorry to break up the reunion of self-absorbed"—the Paul's snorted—"doubles but two things: a) where are George and I—if that makes sense— and b) you wanted to talk about something," John said.

"Yeah, that's why we've got to talk," Richie said.

Paul watched his older self in curiosity. How had he not seen the similarities before? His speech, gestures, and body language seemed so predictable to him that he knew the basic outline of what was about to be said.

"John," Macca said softly.

"Just spit it out. We're getting' older by the minute," John said.

"John, you," Macca faulted but didn't break his eye contact, "…you die."

Silence. The people around them were mute to John's ears. The dog barking outside straight at him went unnoticed. His face was dead to the world yet still glowing with life like the moon in a pitch-black night.

"No," Paul said simply and defensively. "You're lying."

Nobody else said anything. They were all waiting for John's reaction to be vocalized. Other than the silence and pale skin though, he gave nothing away.

"I won't let him," Paul said, trying avoiding the elephant in the room named 'death'. He looked straight to John, who was sitting across from him and said, "John, you know I won't let you die."

John refused to look at any of his band mates and turned to Macca and Richie. "How?"

"John," Macca started.

"Just tell me how," John demanded, suddenly becoming frustrated by all the bull they'd been put through over the past day.

They both paused before Richie spoke up. "Shot in the back by a loony fan."

"This is ridiculous," Paul objected.

"That'd explain my bad back then, wouldn't it," John murmured, his words rising like mist on a graveyard.

"No, John because we _know_ now! We can stop it," Paul said. No one responded to him and it made everything seem too…too final. He smashed his fists onto the table and caught everyone's' attention. "Damn it! I'm not letting you die! I'll fucking stop it!"


	17. Ask Me Why

A/N: Sorry, can't talk. Too busy not owning the Beatles.

**Ringo**

"We can do that, can't we?" Ringo said, bottling up his hope in his heart rather than his voice. "When's it 'appen?"

He watched his future self have a silent discussion with Paul's future self.

"December 8, 1980," Macca said.

"So we _can_ stop it," Paul said.

"Paul," John started, looking across the table at his worried best friend for the first time since he'd been told his future. "I'd probably be here if it—"

"No, John!" Paul exclaimed. "I'm saving you whether you want to be saved or not! I don't _care_ what this—this hallucination says. I'm saving you."

George sat quietly with his head firmly placed in his hand and his sad eyes locked on John as if he'd disappear if he blinked.

"Do I want to know?" George said quietly during one of their now famous silences.

Macca and Richie became even tenser with the youngest Beatle and realized that they were both frightened of hurting the young, frail-looking boy.

"Lung cancer about nine years ago…it spreads to your throat and brain," Richie said as gently as he could without breaking himself.

"Can I stop it?" George asked hopefully.

Paul sighed. "Yes."

"Well… how?"

"You've got to stop smoking."

"Since when did smoking ever hurt anyone?"

"Since nine years ago on November 29."

"We can help you with that though," Ringo said, letting some of his hope loose. "Yeah, we could definitely help you with that. You could…chew gum…we'll support…"

George rubbed his arm and let a nervous smirk free and another awkward drew itself on their scene.

"Could I talk with you?" Richie finally said to Ringo.

"I suppose you—we—are," Ringo said. "But we could…get up if you'd like."

The pair got up and left the bubble of nervous silence.

"Um…Lemme jus' spit it out. There's going to be a time when we want to turn to a _lot_ of different things to relieve stress. Jus' stay away from the alcohol, okay?" Richie said like he was talking to a priest during a confession rather than his past self come through time.

"Why?" Ringo asked, trying to make sense of what was supposedly supposed to come.  
"Why what?"

"Why will I want to drink in, what I'll assume, are high quantities?"

"I guess you'll just have to find out, now won't you?" Richie said trying to seem casual. "Oh and be good to your wife and George. If he needs any help—any at all—you give it to him."

"Why wouldn't I?"

"Just promise me."

"Fine. I promise."

"Good…that's it then…but could you send over George?"

"Why?"

"I need a word with him," Richie said even though his thoughts were more along the line of whether or not he really _was_ this annoying as a kid

"That's fair, I guess."

Ringo left and sent the frail looking George over to Richie.


	18. Get Back

A/N: Flame off, cause I don't own the Beatles.

**George**

"George, you can stop it and I might be able to help you. But you've got to stay away from Maureen," Richie said, wasting no time.

"What does she have to do with anything?"

"Everything…so just promise."

"Um…sure."

George turned to go back to the table but was stopped and turned around back to Richie. "Ask the younger me to stop smoking with you later or when you get back to yer time. If he tries to back out just remind him of his promise to me."

"What did 'e promise?"

"Doesn't matter."

"Between you and Macca, I can't tell who's got worse answers."

Richie smirked at one of his dead best friends and clapped his hand on George's shoulder.

"Yer not to shabby, son."

"Do I become shabby?"

"Ha!"

George, not knowing how to take that, let Richie lead him back to the table and place him next to John.

"How are you 'olding up?" George whispered.

"I just found out about my slow painful death. How do you think I'm doing?"

"There's no _guarantee _yours is slow and painful. It's mine that sounds much more lengthy…and painful."

"Maybe we can start placing our bets."

"Sounds a bit morbid, don't you think?"

"I suppose."

Paul turned to the older version of himself.

"Any wise, old sage advice for me then?"

"I do actually," Macca said. "Wait, who're you callin' old? Never mind. Just when you find the one, bring her to the doctor regularly. "

"What are you talking about?"

"You'll figure it out…hopefully."

"Okay then…well, if that's it, how do we, you know…get back?"

"No idea."

"Well you've lived it."

"So are you."

Paul sighed as Ringo glanced down at his finger again. He looked at his cracked gem and pulled the ring off his finger for further inspection, making the world spin into a black washing machine hole.

Their insides were stretched and squeezed as if they were being pulled though a straw. Every bone, joint, and muscle was broken and smashed together before they were put back together again.


	19. Across the Universe

A/N: Who don't I own? C'mon, say it with me: I don't own the Beatles!

** John**

"'Ey!" someone nearby yelled. "'Ey you lot! Are yer going ter buy anythin' or are you jus' going ter lay there!"

John stretched out his arms like a lazy cat for the first time in what seemed like decades.

"Wake up, you!"

John peeked his eyes open and realized that the man yelling was a waiter who only just reached John's height when he was sitting down.

He closed his eyes again and said, "Get me a coffee then. Black."

The short waiter was taken aback by how articulate John was considering how drunk he must have seemed—he and his mates were napping in a coffee shop after all.

"That's it?"

"Bit greedy to ask, don't you think?" John asked as he dragged himself into wakefulness.

The waiter rolled his eyes and walked off.

"Paul, George, Rings…you 'wake?" John asked, as he made sure that the waiter was much out of earshot by peering over his shoulder.

There were several mumbles but it was better than nothing.

"What just 'appened?"

"LSD maybe?" Paul mumbled. "Or weed."

"Were you…you know…in the future?" John asked, feeling like an imbecile for the first time in a while because of the question.

"Mmmm, hmmm."

He gave an internal sigh of relief before realizing that he didn't remember anything other than just that. "You've any idea what 'appened."

"Marmalade skies…pretty little police men in a row…" Paul muttered.

"Right…" John said unsurely, but making sure to file the lyrics in his head. "Anyone else?"

"Something 'bout cigarettes," George muttered as he lazily lit one up and place it in the usual spot in his mouth.

"Drinking," Ringo muttered. "And me ring."

He held up his hand as if he was going to show it off in his sleep but the one finger that had held the cracked ring was now ring-less.

"Nothing else?"

"Nope," they all said at different points.

John tried his hardest to remember something—_anything_—and within the amount of time it took for the waiter to come back, he had something.

"I remember my back hurt…like I'd been shot or something."

"Maybe you were," Paul mumbled, dismissing it as part of the weird hallucination.

John shrugged and took a sip of his coffee.

"Mind I 'ave a sip," Ringo asked, with high hopes of a quick wake up call.

John handed him the mug and said, "S'pose if you'll pay."

Ringo checked his pockets, found his wallet, and proceeded in digging through it. "'Ey, I think I was robbed!"

"Why's that?" John asked.

"I'm down all me lolly," Ringo said, upturning all his pockets in desperate search of his missing money.

"Honest, you can't go 'round blaming everyone else 'cause you misplaced yer wallet," George said, checking his own pockets to see whether or not he had been the one who'd nicked it. He was surprised to find that his pockets were completely empty themselves. "'Ey! Where's me wallet?"

"You can't go 'round blaming everyone else 'cause you misplaced yer wallet," Ringo mocked using his best George-imitation voice.

"Har har," George spat. "S'pose you think yer a funny one now."

"Hilarious," Ringo said with a smirk, starting to get over the fact that he didn't have any money left on him.

"Guess this one's up to St. Paulie," John said, stopping the oncoming bickering in its tracks.

Paul rolled his eyes and stuck his hands into his pockets to search for any of his own money. He suddenly tensed and froze. "What the bloody 'ell am I fuckin' wearing?"  
He started to pick at his shirt as the rest of the group realized his odd attire and started snickering.

"Who the bloody hell put me in this!" Paul said outraged that he was wearing a shirt that would have undignified a ten year old boy.

They all shared a smile and let out a huff of laughter before two nervous waitresses came up to the group.

"C-c-c-could we possibly, just sort of m-maybe 'ave a-a autograph," one asked timidly, stuttering each time her eyes moved onto a different Beatle.

"We're back," John said.


	20. Here, There, and Everywhere

A/N: Not owning the Beatles sucks when this is the last chapter Oh well!

** Paul**

They ran as fast as they could down the street on account of several things. The first was that they still didn't have any money to satiate the bill for the coffee. Second off was that the fans had accumulated like ants to a picnic and after the thirtieth entered the shop, they'd made a break for it.

The girls screamed like squealing pigs around a feed for the first time in months as they chased them down the street.

"Where're we going?" George yelled above all the noise.

"Try to wave down a cabbie," John yelled back.

"We're being chased!"

"_Really_? I'd no idea! Thanks for pointing it out Georgie," John yelled.

"Split up!" Paul said as the reached the corner.

Paul and John split left while Ringo and George took the right. The oncoming traffic they had to surpass was both a help and hindrance seeing as the girls were slowed down just as much—if not more—than the two main songwriters were.

"Cabbie!" John yelled as he was nearly mowed down by a taxi. "Perfect timing!"

They yanked open the doors on the opposite sides of the cab and hopped in.

"'Ey! Get us to that side!" John said as he pointed towards where George and Ringo had gone off.

Fan girls tried to swarm the car but it was to quick for them. It took off to assist the remaining half of The Beatles.

"Stop!" John yelled when he caught sight of the lead guitarist and the drummer being all but torn to shreds by the fans.

"C'mon! Get in!" Paul yelled, risking his safety and throwing open the door.

The two emerged like survivors of a shark attack and tripped into the cab before anyone of the girls could pile in after them.

"Go! Go! Go!" John yelled.

"Will you shut up, Johnny B. Goode," Ringo kidded, glad that they had made it out without any police assistance…yet.

The cab was piled and blocked by the fans though and prevented from moving any further. They all cowered inside the car waiting for the madness to stop.

"Maybe someone will 'ave the decency to call the bobby," George suggested as he studied the fans pressed up against the window.

"Right," John said, following George's example with slightly more vulgar intentions in mind.

"We'll be 'ere for a while," Ringo warned the driver who looked like he might have been on the verge of a mental breakdown. "Believe it or not, this 'appens a lot."

The driver nodded nervously and pointed out the body-barricaded windows. "You lot out of me car," he said in a trembling voice.

"Not into that madness we won't," Paul argued.

"Out."

"No!" Paul said becoming more frustrated by the notion of willingly being torn apart by the fan frenzy when there was a perfectly good cab to hide out in. The fans must have tripled or even quadrupled within the last few minutes and by the time the police would arrive, the cab would have become a squished up piece of tin foil.

The screaming only got louder and louder as the seconds passed and they had to resort to muffling all the droning bee-people-fans with their hands over their ears. Bears could've been mauling the fans for all they knew.

Finally, a suit pressed itself against the window and struggled to pull the door open.

"Whocher doin', Eppy?" John yelled as one Brian yanked them from the safety of the car.

"Bobbies 'ere, no need to worry," Brian said like a true professional.

On cue, several bobbies surrounded them like a mini barricade of FBI agents. Surrounding that group was even more police trying to restrain the rowdy girls.

"Don't wave and don't smile," Brian instructed them. "That'll jus' encourage them."

John and Paul shared a smirk and started waving and smiling directly at the crazed fans just to pull a reaction from their manager. At first, the action went unnoticed, but once Brian realized why the screaming intensity rocketed he grabbed the two co-writers by their ears and ushered them all—Beatles, police guards, and obsessed fan girls—down the road.


End file.
